


The Other Road

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Series: A Coterie that Became Historic -the 1830s AU [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Marriage, Nightmares, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: An examination of a choice: instead of kicking Theodule where it hurts, Eponine says yes to his proposal
Relationships: Combeferre/Other(s), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras & Éponine Thénardier
Series: A Coterie that Became Historic -the 1830s AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/279021
Comments: 18
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**The Other Road**

Her brothers are the first to know that she has said 'yes' to Theodule's proposal. Gavroche rolls his eyes and mutters something about wanting to 'maquiller' the booby, while Neville simply walks out and curls up with yet another book. He doesn't look at her for the next two days.

Jacques bursts into tears and asks, "Ponine, why can't we be a family?"

"Of course we'll be a family, what are you talking about?" she replies. It is only a moment after that she realizes that her brother isn't considering Theodule at all in this question.

It isn't much better when she finally tells Azelma and the rest of their friends, when they are meeting the day before the elections. Naturally they congratulate her, but she notices that slight hesitation with Azelma, Combeferre, Musichetta, and Claudine. Before she can ask them about it, she finds Enjolras in front of her.

"I'll finally be happy, I won't be alone," she tells him. "Don't you think it is a good thing?"

"If that is what you choose. My best wishes for you both," he replies. He smiles, but there is somehow a difference now, as if something was lost even before they could put words to it. It is even more evident days later at the _Radicaux_ victory celebration, when everyone is toasting the newly elected representatives. He publicly thanks her for her part in the campaign, and there is nothing but cordiality in his look.

They start avoiding each other again on the stairs soon after, and while they still leave out coffee for each other every day, it's now more often than not burnt.

The wedding is set for that very spring, in the middle of May. It is an uproarious celebration at the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, thanks to the insistence of Theodule's aunt. Her friends stay for a while, her siblings leave on the pretext of the distance, and it is such that when evening falls it's only Theodule's regiment at the reception, finishing the food and drink, toasting the happily married pair, and making increasingly ribald jokes.

His mustache tickles her each time they kiss, and his voice starts ringing a little too loudly when he has a bit much to drink. He is sure and firm in his passion, almost smothering really, and she has no choice but to give in completely to him. It is all well and good for her, till she realizes he's snoring beside her without so much as a goodnight kiss.

It's fine, she tells herself. They'll learn.

Before summer comes, the regiment is posted to Calais. And that's when Eponine realizes that little Jacques was right all along, they cannot be a family. Her place is with her husband, of course. It is foolish to have three boys trailing after them, and one of them with a wooden leg at that. She has no choice but to give them up again. "I'll see you soon and I'll write, I promise," she tells them on the morning they leave. She can't help but look back one time too many, hoping to embed in her mind forever the sight of her brothers on the steps of the dear old tenement.

It always takes far too long for the correspondence to reach Calais; in fact sometimes it's weeks before letters come through. Musichetta is the one who writes the most often; even as Citizenness Joly she still finds time to see to everyone, and constantly assures Eponine that her brothers are being well cared for by Enjolras, Combeferre, and Claudine.

It is Christmas when Eponine receives a perfunctory greeting from her brothers and Azelma. This comes with one of Musichetta's lengthy letters, and in this one she lets slip that Azelma and Prouvaire are on the outs, and that the boys call Claudine their 'maman' now. That night Eponine cries herself to sleep, heedless of Theodule's jokes and caresses.

Enjolras never writes. Eponine understands.

Winter dissolves into spring, and spring into summer, and summer once again into autumn. It is a busy year and Theodule is often away with the regiment, training new recruits. Eponine is left keeping house at their cozy little cottage. When he does come back, he always smells of the soil, sweat, and beer, and never wine and cheap cologne. She knows she ought to be breathing a sigh of relief; other married women have worse to contend with, but sometimes she can't help but wish that there really was another love, some face she could pin her troubles on.

He leaves her with a big, hearty kiss and a basket of her favourite cheeses on their first wedding anniversary, which he must necessarily spend away from home. She cries bitterly as soon as he is out of earshot and places a hand on her midsection, imagining that it is his palm atop of hers as she tells him that there will soon be another to bear the Gillenormand name.

The seaside air at Calais is good for her, and her impending motherhood only adds to the bloom in her cheeks. There is no reason to appear pallid before such bliss. It helps that Theodule is all solicitude whenever he is home, which is increasingly rare now that he is promoted to being a captain. Eponine sometimes goes for meals with the other disgruntled wives of the officers. It is awkward for her since she is the youngest of them all and a Parisian, never mind that her background is unknown in this city. Theodule tells her though that this will be good for her, so she keeps her chin up and goes to these chitchats. The first time she joins the ladies, her head aches with the gossip and griping they have about their husbands. After this she swears to herself never to be in their company for more than once a week, and tells Theodule so.

"Why, you will be lonely!" he chides her.

" _I have been for some time,'_ she wants to say but she merely bites her lip.

Their son is born one stormy November day. She fancies the name 'Julien' for their boy, but Theodule insists on naming the child 'Alfred'. "It's the name I always wish I had," he informs her, and for some reason she can't help laughing. He doesn't join in.

Alfred Gillenormand is basically his father in miniature, in both looks and temperament. He is a beautiful blue-eyed cherub with a perpetually muddy face, ever ready to cause mischief in the house or run about with the other children of the neighbourhood. When Alfred is just over a year old, Eponine gives birth to Thierry, a child who is named as close as possible to Theodule. Unsurprisingly this second child of hers is just as much an imp as the first, and this time Theodule wonders if it's Eponine's temperament that has to do with it. Eponine worries that the boys will come to harm with their capers, but Theodule sternly tells her to leave them be. He chides them, Thierry especially, every time they tug on their mother's apron strings or ask for her help.

They become his sons, and she is only the woman who birthed them.

With Alfred and Thierry around, at least physically, Eponine no longer has time to think of her siblings. The letters grow shorter and shorter, till they stop altogether. The time comes when even Musichetta cannot muster anything more than a couple of lines.

The city of Paris may be miles away, but still Eponine hears the rumbling and the thunder. Now and then she looks through copies of the _Moniteur_ and finds a familiar name or two in the bylines or as a subject of the articles. Sometimes she feels an itch in her hands, as if she ought to grasp a pen again, but she bites her lip against such a ridiculous notion. Anyway, how could she even get an article out of Calais without her husband noticing?

More seasons pass, and suddenly a letter comes for Theodule, in his cousin's hand. Apparently their aunt is gravely ill and familial duty requires they return to Paris. For the first time ever, Eponine sees her husband struggle not to cry.

"She was the closest kin you had. I s'pose I'd cry a little if I were you," she tells him.

He frowns at her. "She wouldn't want that," he says as he balls up the letter and throws it in the fireplace. Nevertheless he tells his commanding officer that he has to take a furlough, and tells Eponine to get the family's things ready. They are returning to Paris.

That night Eponine hears childish laughter in her dreams. She looks about and finds herself confronted with a little girl with golden hair and brown eyes. Before she can ask this child's name, she runs off into the mist. When Eponine wakes, her pillow is drenched.

She never tells Theodule about this dream but she sees it before her waking eyes all the way to Paris. The year is 1840 now, enough time for the city to change. Eponine knows to expect this, but even she is startled with how the slums of Saint-Michel have been reorganized, how the streets have been renamed, and even with how the schools are run and how the people have talked of politics. It is almost dizzying and maddening. ' _I should have been here,'_ the envious thought occurs to her, but she bites it back for the sake of adopting mourning.

She has to let Theodule grieve and sob in his own way before his aunt's coffin; they arrive too late to say their goodbyes. She hears the whispers around her, chiding her for being so stony faced in the midst of such suffering, but she cannot bring herself to weep for an almost-stranger. Almost without thinking of it, she accepts Cosette Pontmercy's invitation to join her for luncheon the next day.

It almost too easy to pretend everything is bright and easy when in Cosette's company, since that is the effect she has on people. However Cosette doesn't mince any words or spare any detail when telling Eponine of everything that has transpired in her absence. All their friends are doing great things now; even Bossuet's ill fortune has turned and he's taken over the glassworks business while Jean Valjean focuses solely on philanthropy. They have all advanced in their respective professions: Joly is now the head doctor at the Bourbe, Feuilly is the chief official in charge of gradually granting the colonies independence, Grantaire is a newspaper editor, Bahorel is a full inspector now at the Prefecture, Courfeyrac is one of the most sought after lawyers in Paris, Prouvaire has published another book and has a perpetual annuity now for his works, Combeferre is now a dean at the Sorbonne, and Enjolras is running an office in the ministry of the Interior, having taken on the assignment after successfully finishing his term in the legislature.

"And my siblings?" Eponine is almost afraid to ask but she has to.

Cosette sighs. "Don't you know? I thought you would."

"No, they've stopped writing."

"Well you should know: Azelma is living in Marseilles now; she and Prouvaire never mended that rift of theirs. I tried to get her to stay but she would have none of it. Gavroche is training to be a detective under Bahorel. Jacques is about to enter the higher school now, and he's talking of being a writer or a lawyer. Neville is in England now, on a trip with Combeferre and Claudine to present a discovery to the Royal Society. They should be back in time for Enjolras' wedding-"

Eponine starts. "To who?"

Cosette rolls her eyes. "A lady named Cerise Lafontaine. She is clever enough, from a family his parents know." It is clear in her tone that she hasn't quite warmed to this woman, which would be a first given Cosette's usually loving nature. Yet Eponine can almost hear the accusation in her friend's tone. ' _She's not you. It should have been you.'_

Eponine can only shrug. "Well if his parents know the family, that's good, I s'pose."

"It was long in coming," Cosette says before quickly changing the topic, much to Eponine's relief. Still the discomfiture remains even towards the end of the luncheon, when Cosette wishes her well and Eponine promises to write and end the silence.

Heaven knows if she'll be able to keep the promise. The regiment is moving from Calais to Metz this time, and she will have no time to write.

On the way out of the Pontmercy home, she sees Marius talking to a couple, apparently friends of his. Eponine starts and ducks her head, recognizing all too well the familiar sight of golden hair, a perfectly chiselled face, and hands that had once steadied her own. She risks a glance at the woman named Cerise; she is a perfect brunette statue, with mocking eyes and a pout that speaks of the smug, satisfied woman. Yet in that moment it is a pair of cold blue eyes that catches her gaze, blue eyes that are widening with surprise and something close to pain before hardening once again into the sternness that everyone knows.

She hears Cerise ask about her but she doesn't hear what Enjolras has to say. All she knows she has to get away before the years catch up to her. They do anyway and next thing she knows she is stuffing her fist in her mouth to bite back her weeping, never mind if she is right there in the street where everyone can see.

"Eponine?"

Her eyes fly open and she sees the whiteness of the blankets she's tangled up in. As soon as she extricates herself, she ends up blinking in the half-light of her bedroom just before dawn. She catches a ragged breath even as she feels a callused hand rubbing the back of her neck. "It's only a dream," she whispers, leaning into this comforting and familiar touch. "It's not exactly a nightmare though."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow as he puts an arm on her waist to coax her to snuggle closer. "What do you mean?"

"Only another sort of story, I s'pose," she says, running a hand through his messy golden curls, the sharp line of his cheekbones and the barely there stubble on his chin. She sighs with sheer relief that he is with her and real, as real as her brothers sleeping in the room down the hall and the bustling city around them. The day will not wait for two people such as them and the hours will be long, but it is a challenge that Eponine is dearly looking forward to meeting.

He kisses her hand first and then moves his lips to the bridge of her nose. The bemusement, wonder, and affection in his blue eyes is something she is sure she will never tire of. "What about?"

"A choice I'm glad I said 'no' to," she whispers as she pulls him close, eager to show him how glad she is that he is part of her reality.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flip side of the nightmare

**Our Way Together**

_December 1834_

“An old woman told me once that I’d marry a tall man who was a fine warrior.”

This sentence cuts through Enjolras’ quiet perusal of a folio, and he looks up from his work to meet Eponine’s playful smile from a few tables down in the archives room of the Ministry of Commerce. “Who in particular was this?” he asks.

“A lady I met in the catacombs once, near the Place d’Enfer,” she replies, shrugging in that way she does when talking about the memories she likes to laugh at. She glances over at where their daughter is still fast asleep in a basket before speaking again, this time in a whisper. “I’d gone down there for an errand on All Hallows Eve, and she said that it was the perfect time to take a look at what I might be, or end up with.”

Enjolras nods, for these traditions aren’t entirely new to him. “In Aix, those would take place by bonfires, using apples.”

“Oh, this woman said that the best way to go about it is to look into a mirror,” Eponine says. She laughs and he knows that he’s probably looking baffled once again. “I s’pose it couldn’t be just any mirror; it looked like something old and rare. I couldn’t see very well into it, so I do not know if she saw a proper face in there. I thought for a bit that she meant I’d marry a soldier the way Maman wanted to.”

“Do you mean what your mother wanted for herself, or what she would have wanted for you?” he asks cautiously. Her words bring up images of a more tremulous and unsure time, when once a lancer had waited by her door and she’d smile for every middling compliment he deigned to give her.

She turns to look at him, with her smile now turned wry. “My Maman wanted a soldier, but she got my father. I think he might have caught her fancy with tales of battles. Nothing about Waterloo just yet!”

Her tone makes him smile and she laughs out loud, for they know all too well how such dreams and hopes can change so suddenly. Yet even long after they’ve left the library, long after they have retired for the night, he still can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Eponine had become a soldier’s wife as she thought she would have.

She would not be living in Paris, for one thing. She would have left with Theodule and his regiment that same year, perhaps in the middle of summer. She would have left behind her brothers, for it is still a foolish idea to have children trailing along behind a garrison. Enjolras knows that she would have asked him to take care of them in his own way. ‘ _Sometimes you know them more than I do_ ,’ she would have said before gently placing little Jacques in his arms and then picking up her own valise to walk out the tenement door towards her husband.

Enjolras would have known better than to write to her; he knows that such letters from old friends, regardless of how dear, could sometimes cause trouble in a marriage. He knows that she will not write either, for fear of disturbing this peace. Yet he will gladly forward the letters from her brothers;; he knows the tales they spin on paper, the adventures they regale her with, and of course the troubles they keep to themselves. “You are somewhat their father now,” Combeferre would tell him.

“So are you,” Enjolras reminds him. It is more fitting, he surmises, for the boys by this time would look to Claudine as a mother. She is after all the one who always comes by for them, who helps Neville stretch the aching stump of his leg and who soothes the quarrels between Gavroche and Jacques. He breathes a sigh of relief on the day he hears Jacques call “Maman!” when Claudine walks into the door, and when he sees Neville accidentally write “Papa” on a note addressed to Combeferre.

Sometimes on breezy days he would have tried to imagine Eponine walking by the seaside of Calais, laughing as the wind ruffled her long reddish hair. She would make a pretty picture on the stoop of a small house, singing a ditty or even a drinking song under her breath. Perhaps the sea air would improve her raspy voice and give it a little melody. Perhaps she’d have so many men looking her way, at least till Theodule’s reproving glance would frighten them off.

There would be other things to wonder about, images that keep him up at night and have him splashing cold water on his face. These are things that spring from the mere memory of the touch of her hand, yet he knows somehow that these are not entirely recollections. There would be one morning in particular, as the sunlight tugs him from his dreams, when he swears he hears her voice in his ear whispering his name—-and followed by an ‘ _I love you’._ He would open his eyes then and look about, cursing himself for dreaming her up and for wishing that the touch of her lips had followed these words. He knows that her touch is not for him to long for, and her kiss is not hers to give no matter how sweet.

There would have been a day when his father would have called on him, perhaps after his turn in the legislature. “It is not good for a man to be alone, Antoine. The Bible says that much,” his father would have said.

He would have replied with a mere sigh at first. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find a wife. Someone who’ll take care of you,” his father would entreat him. “You’re going nigh on thirty, my son, and you have too few hours for your affairs.”

“There is much to be done.”

“I am proud of what you have already done, but I do wish you’d be happy. You need a helpmate.”

“A helpmate? Is that all?”

“Why, is there more?”

Enjolras would only look away if only to keep in his mind the sight of red hair flashing under the lamplight, the sound of a lilting laugh, and the sureness of gloved fingers. “Someone who would understand what has to be done here.”

“So you mean Parisian?”

“Perhaps. If necessary.”

There would be no shortage of young heiresses and eligible faces all too eager to catch his eye. There would be far too few to hold his attention. “You need not rush into it,” Courfeyrac would advise him. “Not when your heart is still too full.”

Enjolras would only nod ruefully; Courfeyrac now understands loss after being left to raise a son alone. They can speak of these things together. “It is only a memory now. How foolish. I am sure that the woman she is now does not compare.”

Courfeyrac would be silent for a moment. “I heard from Marius, who heard from his cousin that Eponine now has two children, both sons.

“Of course.” Enjolras could very easily imagine her with two little boys clinging to her skirts as she goes about her day. Somehow he knows that neither of them would have her lovely red hair, but perhaps they would get something of her irrepressible smile or temper. ‘ _That is if Citizen Gillenormand will allow it,’_ he understands.

As for him, he would have Cerise Lafontaine. Without any rival she would always be pushed in his line of sight till what resolve he has against her gives way to entreaties and pragmatism. She is perfection in a brunette form, with a charm that holds sway over every gathering and eyes worthy to be emulated in art. “Your family approves and mine wants you heartily. It is a perfect situation,” she would often tell him, usually when she has forced her way into his arms for a waltz.

“Are those the only inclinations you consider, Citizenness?” he would often ask her.

She would only laugh. “What do those things matter?”

In the end he would have no choice but to propose to her. They would have been seen together too often, and he would have to save her reputation from being sullied due to prospects gone sour. He would have to offer her nothing less than a diamond ring. At least her eyes shine brighter than the jewel when she does say ‘yes’.

“We have to show everyone!” Cerise would certainly say every day. That’s how they make the rounds of his friends’ homes, and more importantly those of her family’s acquaintances and contacts. Inevitably they make their way to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire to visit the Pontmercys. It would be just as they are walking in that they see another couple exiting the house.

It is difficult to mistake Theodule Gillenormand in the street; a lancer is always difficult to miss. However that would certainly not mater the moment Enjolras sees _her_ , with her red hair tied up behind a black bonnet and her dark eyes so deep till that moment they widen with surprise before she gasps and dashes off, unable to hold his gaze.

Cerise would of course stare after her. “Who is she, Enjolras?”

“One of the truest of friends,” he would say. It is an honor and yet also a curse. She will always know him, and he will always hold on to her—even if it is but a shadow, even if it but a passing dream or hope of years.

This time it is a loud cry that breaks Enjolras out of his sleepless reverie. He silently slips out of bed and walks to the cradle just a few paces away. Despite the late hour he cannot help but smile at the sight of Laure’s chubby face, with her golden curls and dark brown eyes. “What is it, _petite?”_ he whispers as he carefully picks her up. He sighs with relief when he hears her stop crying and feels her snuggle into the crook of his arm, but that’s only for a moment before her indignant wails begin anew.

He hears the blankets rustle from nearby. “I s’pose she’s hungry by now,” Eponine groans sleepily. “Could you please bring her here, Antoine?”

Enjolras returns to where Eponine is now sitting up in their bed, already adjusting her nightdress. “How do you know?” he asks as he carefully hands Laure to her.

“I just do,” Eponine whispers as she adjusts her hold on the baby. “I can’t wait till she learns to sleep through the night and isn’t hungry so often.”

“When will that be?”

“Not for a while yet, I’m sorry.”

He kisses her cheek just to make her smile. “It’s a good thing we’re used to late nights.”

She rolls her eyes as she shifts so he can get in next to her. She leans against him and reaches up with her free hand to push his hair out of his eyes, stopping to trace a scar just under his hairline. “It’s our way of doing things.”

Enjolras nods before slipping an arm around her waist, feeling relief beyond measure for this path they have chosen together.


End file.
